The Chronicles of Kells and Temra
by SarasimStark
Summary: The Knights are facing down Nemain and her knight of shadows when Maeve returns. But whose side is she on?
1. Chapter 1

Chronicles of Kells and Temra

Chapter One: Maeve

The ship seemed to groan as it rocked back and forth on the open sea. She sighed as she felt her stomach turn yet again, but she forced herself to keep the mush they had fed her down. It wouldn't be becoming of her to stain her clothes with puke. Besides she'd been through this enough times to know that she would get her sea legs and soon, she'd feel a little more human. It'd easier to adjust if they would let her above deck, but she knew better than to ask that. No doubt, they've heard about her reputation as a difficult prisoner.

She made no apologies for her hard-earned reputation as a difficult prisoner. She had spent her life fighting for what was due to her; that so-called King would be foolish if he thought she would stop just because she was in captivity.

In her short year in exile, she had still managed to earn the enmity of virtually all who had been drafted into guarding her. She made herself such a difficulty to her original captors that they had washed their hands of her, sending her to other allies. From there, she had been passed from ally to ally until she lost track of who had her all together. But she didn't care: all dungeons looked about the same.

She leaned against the wooden side of the ship as it heaved back and forth and tried not to focus on her stomach like some gutter peasant. She was a queen; nothing could change that, not King Conchobar, not anybody. She was a queen through and through, and no matter what happened to her, no matter that they fed her worse than the animals and dressed her in rags, she would always be a queen and they would always be beneath her.

Still she wished she could get up on deck and see the ocean. Her fondest memories of her youth all involved traveling across the sea, bracing herself against the wind, and smelling that wonderful sea air. But she could never be that young again.

The ship groaned again, deeper and louder before, like some dread sleeping monster rousing itself. The sea began to batter against the sides like a ram. She could hear the sailors curse as they scrambled to lower their sails as rain poured in sheets, leaking through the deck to the cargo hold where she was being held.

This storm wasn't natural. Normal storms came with warnings: dark clouds and rings around the moon. She had never seen anything like this before: a storm just appearing on a clear day. She braced herself against the side of the ship, hoping the ship would hold.

The great timbers of the ship began to split, snapping one by one as the waves turned into a cyclone, whipping and spinning everything in its path. Maeve cried out and clawed at empty air as the ship fell apart around her, desperately trying to hold onto something, but there was nothing to hold onto.

As the ship shattered into pieces and was spun around, she saw faces of the crew members rush pass her, eyes wild with desperation, but she didn't reach out for them nor did they reach out to her, as they were dragged into the deep. She was worthless to them.

She fought, kicking and scrambling against the rushing torrent of water, grateful that Nemain had forced her to learn to swim. Nemain? Was this her doing? She didn't have much time to think. She clawed and clawed at the water until finally she surfaced. Only then did the storm stop.

She looked around her as she bobbed like a cork in the open sea. The storm was over; the clouds were gone; and the sea was as smooth and calm as a sheet of glass. Were it not for the few splintered boards that floated around her, she would never have known that a ship had been there in the first place.

She struggled to catch her breath, her memory still filled with the images of drowning sailors and of the ship breaking apart like a child's toy. So what are you going to do know? She knew someone's hand was in the storm and her survival, but she didn't focus too much on who and why; right now, survival was the only thing on her mind.

She had no way of knowing where she was. All she saw was miles and miles of open sea, smooth as glass, under a clear blue sky. There was no sight of land anywhere and it wasn't long before she began to despair. What was she supposed to do now? She started to think that the sailors were the lucky one; a quick drowning sounded better than a slow death from days at sea.

But there wasn't much she could do except start swimming.

She was a fairly strong swimmer though she hadn't done much swimming since her youth, but it wasn't long before she exhausted herself. She sighed, too tired to spit out the salty water which flowed into her. Her tongue felt like a piece of flannel and her eyes stung and she felt like a worthless worm struggling in a puddle of water, struggling so hard to live when it was more sensible to just stop. Yet her will was strong; her legs kept kicking, kept forcing her head above water, even though increasingly, she was starting to see little point in all this.

She wondered what her nemesis, the King of Kells, would think of all this. When she was not being disagreeable to all who were stuck taking care of her, she spent her time plotting to return to Kells. She had decided years ago that no matter what happened, she would not end her days in a foreign land. She had never thought of the possibility that she would die at sea instead.

The King of Kells was probably unaware of the many transfers she had gone through and probably didn't care: as long as she was out of his hair, he was happy. He probably would never know about the ship and if her bad luck continued, never know about her death. If she died out here, which was a strong possibility, no one would find what was left of her bloated body.

Her head throbbed. Everything hurt. Even her hair hurt. She was so preoccupied by her aches and pains that she almost missed the cry of a gull.

As soon as she heard, it her mind filled with hope. She was almost ready to crown that gull for saving her. Lord knows it would rule better than that King of Kells. She swam, putting as much strength into her strokes as she could muster, in the direction of the gull. Gradually she saw it: land, wonderful land. She swam and swam, fighting her growing exhaustion, until finally she collapsed against the rocks on the shoreline.

She did a quick survey of her aches and pains. She was no longer as young as she once was, and what she had been through would try even a young man. Her right leg was a horror of pain; the bone felt like it was in the very least broken, if not shattered. She was cold and every movement sent spasms of pain through her body. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and wait for death. Had she survived so much, come so far, only to die on some foreign shores?

Then she heard a fluttering of wings, looked up, and saw that her troubles were just beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

Chronicles of Kells and Temra

The withered leaves cracked under foot as the knights went through their training. This was late autumn, a brief interval before winter snow. Autumn was a last hurrah before winter, a brief time of plenty before the belt-tightening season of winter.

Cathbad watched the knights train, as he limped around his shop, casting incantations and studying signs. An old injury was acting up and this combined with the cold, put him in a rather gloomier mood than usual.

It was true Druids aged differently from ordinary people, but they still aged, and these days he couldn't help but feel his years. This season always brought it out in him.

The wind whistled through the open window, stirring the protective charms and powders he had laid all over the shop. Though the past weeks had been peaceful, he was well aware of the danger that lurked. Nemain still sat on the Temran throne, but eventually, she would make her move and the knights and Kells had better be ready.

He studied and restudied his notes he had made on his observations. So far all signs pointed to the same thing: Kells was in for a hard winter. So he made sure that the harvest was carefully stored away and rationed so that they may survive the hard winter that was coming.

Then he saw something. The vision was difficult to make out at first, but gradually it became clearer: Maeve had returned to Kells, not as a queen bent on conquest, but a half-drowned vagrant clinging to the shore. As soon as the vision ended, he looked up to see that Aideen had seen the same thing in her travels around the island, and was now informing the knights.

The knights came forward. Deirdre, heir to the royal family he had served for generations, led the way, her face a mask of anger. Ivar and Angus, Knight of Sea and Knight of Earth, followed, as did Rohan and Garrett, all of them looking to him for guidance. "Is what Aideen said true?" Rohan asked.

"Yes," Cathbad said, "Maeve has returned to Kells." Deirdre's face turned white with rage and it looked like she might erupt with anger; Cathbad directed his next reply to her. "I will inform the King. You must go and find her before our enemies do, and remember only your father can carry out the sentence laid against her." She nodded, but Cathbad hoped the knights would keep her in line. Deirdre was a fine young woman and would someday make a good queen, but she did have a temper.

As soon as the knights had left in pursuit of Maeve, he resumed his work, casting incantations in hopes of finding out more about what the future held.

Maeve retched, but since there was nothing in her stomach, all that came up with a thin, white liquid. Her head throbbed. How long had she been at sea? It felt like an eternity since she had had water to drink and food to eat; she would even settle for the mush they fed animals now.

This was not how she had hoped to return to Kells. She had planned to gather her resources and come back with an army in tow, overthrow the king, and set herself on the throne. She planned to come back in glory, not like this. She groaned as her stomach churned and prayed that nothing more would come up."

"You…" She looked up to find herself staring down Deirdre and her crossbow. Deirdre snarled at her. "You knew the penalty for returning to this island. I ought to kill you now."

"Hold it," Ivar said. "Only his majesty can carry out such orders." Deirdre looked ready to pounce but she held back as Angus, Garrett, and Rohan walked closer to the shore to inspect Maeve.

Maeve groaned as she struggled to get to her feet. Pain shot through her body; she sank back into the sand. Garrett studied her. "She's been at sea for some time."

"Well give the man a prize." Maeve saw no reason to be kind to them. They were just going to take her to her enemy and he would have her hang. She had no intention of being pleasant and making her transport an easy one for them.

But Rohan looked thoughtful. Maeve shuddered. She hoped he hadn't gotten soft on her.

She held no illusions that Rohan had any kind of feelings towards her other than scorn. She didn't expect any less of him. Honesty compelled her to admit that if she'd have been disappointed if he did have warm feelings towards her; it'd prove he was no relation of hers.

"What are you doing here?" Rohan asked.

"I was in the neighborhood and I thought I'd give your King a hello," She said her expression as stony as possible. "What do you think?"

If he was affected in any way by what she said, Rohan didn't show. Instead he turned to Garrett and Angus and said, "Come on, we need to carry her back to the King. Perhaps she'll be more willing to talk to him."

So they scooped her up as though she were a small child and carried her to the castle.

She didn't expect a warm welcome and didn't receive one. As she passed through the gates, not as a reigning conqueror like she had once dreamed but as a prisoner, the soldiers jeered and threw garbage at her. But she didn't care. She was going to hang soon enough anyway. Might as well enjoy her last few minutes.

She let them carry her into the castle, but as soon as she was there, she insisted upon standing even as pain shot through her. No way was she going to appear before the King cradled in somebody else's arms.

She studied the King seated on his throne. Pity, she thought, she had rather hoped to outlive him at least. He did look aged, more grey streaked his beard, but she knew the odds of him deciding to spare her were not in her favor. He was the most irritating type of man: the kind that always kept his word.

She decided to speak first. "You're looking well today, your majesty." She spat out these last words with all the venom she could muster.

But King Conchobar was not easily swayed; she didn't expect him to be. She would be the same way if the tables were turned and he was facing her, she wouldn't show him any mercy.

"What is your business in Kells?"

"What do you think, your highness?"

He stared at her as stone-faced as she was. "You understand the penalty for returning to this island is death by hanging."

She started to speak, but before she could, Cathbad rushed in, carrying scrolls of parchment. "My king, I must ask that you spare Maeve's life?"

"What?" Deirdre said.

"I've studied and restudied the signs and all I can conclude is that Maeve, for good or bad, has a role to play in future events. We can't have her die, not yet."

"What if her role is for bad?" Deirdre said.

"That's not for us to say, but remember, she knows Nemain better than any of us. If Nemain ever decides to make her move, we might need Maeve's help."

Deirdre looked appalled at the idea of ever needing Maeve's help. Maeve herself couldn't help but smirk. She had spent much of her life trying to outsmart Nemain to no avail. If they thought she had special insight into Nemain, they were mistaken.

She studied the faces of the knights assembled in the King's court. They too, looked shocked at the idea of sparing her, but King Conchobar looked thoughtful. "So Maeve might still have a role in the coming conflict?"

"That's what the signs say," Cathbad said.

"Very well then. Treat her injuries and take her to the dungeons. We can hold her there."

"What?" Deirdre shouted.

Rohan watched as Cathbad set her broken bone and splinted it then had the soldiers escort her to the dungeons. He wished he could watch all this with a dispassionate eye like Angus, concerned only with what it means for Kells, but the truth was that Maeve's arrival in Kells brought all sorts of mixed feelings in him. He had no illusions that their broken relationship could ever be healed—he had severed any emotional ties he had to her ages ago and she to him—but he was curious. Just how had she wound up in Kells? But there was more he wanted to know than just that: Maeve possessed information he desperately coveted. She knew who his father was.

Cathbad had done his best to try to find out more information about his father to no avail. It was like Maeve had systematically erased every part of her history. So much as he didn't want to see Maeve again, part of him was grateful that the King had spared her and she was still alive. Alive, she could still give him the information he craved. Dead, she was of no use to anybody.


	3. Chapter 3

Chronicles of Kells and Temra

It was a miracle really, to have such a smooth crossing across the sea. Kiaran couldn't say he had been on many sea voyages but usually it was rare to have so long a crossing without running into some form of trouble, yet the voyage had gone off without a hitch. Soon, they would reach the shore and he would be able to meet with his lady, the Lady Nemain, for the first time in weeks.

He leaned against the railing of the ship and looked out as the island gradually drew closer and closer. He had heard many things about the island nations of Temra and Kells. He had heard that Temra was in wretched shape, its former Queen having run it into the ground in pursuit of victory over her rival, and that for many Lady Nemain served to signal hope to a citizenry already beaten down by war. He knew less about Kells, knew little about why the previous queen and Lady Nemain desired it so, but he was a servant of the Lady Nemain and it was not his job to question her orders. She, after all, had saved his life; he owed a debt to her that could never be repaid.

The great ship docked and the crew began preparing to come ashore. Kiaran, a prince of Galen, thirteenth in line for the throne, watched with curiosity as the crew went through its motions, bringing down the sails and anchoring the ship. There was so much he needed to learn about this new place. He had studied the information Lady Nemain had given to him, but nothing prepared him for when he saw the country firsthand.

Lady Nemain was right: these were a wretched people. On nearly every face, he saw marks of misery, marks of woe. Even the Docktown whores, their faces rouged and painted, looked dispirited and beaten down. The war had been hard on everyone and both Temra and Kells were bracing for a difficult winter.

He felt garish and out of place in his leather tunic and coat of mail. He could see the beggars and whores eyeing him; they could tell just by looking at him that he was a foreigner of some means and they held out their hands for alms. Kiaran dropped a few coins into a few cups but after awhile, he had to stop. There was so much need and he couldn't possibly expect to fill it all just by dropping a few coins into a few beggars' cups.

Finally, they came to the castle. The Castle of Temra was a gloomy, forbidding place ringed by mountains. He waited patiently for permission to enter; when he got it, Kiaran entered into the castle.

The Lady Nemain, now known as the Queen of Temra, sat on her throne waiting for him. Kiaran entered and bowed to her. "My lady," he said, "I must think you for arranging my travels and I promise I will offer my service wherever I can, but I must ask: why does this Kells bear such a fascination for you?"

She smiled. His lady was always coy, always playing her cards close to her chest. "My dear Kiaran," she said, "let's just say these people fascinate me."

"I see." He knelt before her. "Is my understanding correct, that you intend for me to be your general and command your forces?"

"It is, my dear Kiaran."

"Then may I, with your permission, see these men I am to command?"

"You may. They are outside waiting. If there is anything you need, please let me know and I will see to it that you get it."

"Thank you, my lady." He bowed and went outside.

Mider appeared in a puff of smoke. "Well, well, my Queen, so this is that Kiaran you told me so much about. I must say, he seems entirely too noble for his own good."

"That is true, Mider, but you must know that it is the noble ones who make the best playthings."

Kiaran studied the assembled troops and sighed. These were a small, ramshackle bunch; from what he heard the Kellsmen outnumbered them terribly. If he was to deliver victory to his lady, it was going to require a lot of work and training to turn these men into proper troops. Most of these men, he had heard, joined, not because they had a great love of country or fighting, but because if they were in the army, they were promised at least two meals a day, which was rapidly becoming a luxury. Many of them lacked proper uniforms and boots and still wore their civilian clothes. This had to change. If he was going to turn them into proper fighting men, he needed to get them looking like proper fighting men. So immediately he began going to the ironsmiths and the seamstresses and cobblers and began making his orders: no man in his army was going to go into battle without proper clothing and tools, he would make sure of that. It wasn't going to be easy but he'd deliver victory to these Temran soldiers or die trying.


	4. Chapter 4

Chronicles of Kells and Temra

The past few weeks went by slowly. Usually when held captive, Maeve made it her point to be as disagreeable to her captors as possible, but this time, she did her best to squelch her stubborn nature and try to get along with her captors. She did this because she still had hopes of escaping one day and ruling the island, but also because she knew her mere presence galled the Princess Deirdre and truthfully it amused her to watch the Princess get so enraged. It was a source of comfort to Maeve, the knowledge that no matter what, she would always be a thorn in the King's side.

She spent most of her time lying on her bed of straw, rubbing her broken leg. According to the Druid, it would be several weeks before she could put weight on her leg again and even despite his best efforts, she would always walk with a limp. This galled her, but it was one of those facts that couldn't be helped; she would have to be a Queen with a limp.

As she languished in the dungeons, she would strain her ears and listen to the sounds of the knights practicing in the courtyard, hoping she could hear something of her son. She wasn't a foolish woman; she knew that any ties between them had long since been severed, but in spite of everything, he still called back memories for her. He is more like his father than he knows, she thought.

She has heard all the stories they tell about her. The soldiers, while polite to her face, whisper about her when they think she isn't listening. They call her a witch and a whore among other things. Some of what they said was true, some of it wasn't, but she didn't care. Sticks and stones, sticks and stones, as her father always said. It was the one bit of useful advice he'd ever given her and she took it to heart. They could break all her bones, bury her in the deepest dungeon, but nothing they could do could ever take away her birthright. Even in rags and tatters she will always be a Queen and they will not.

There was a wisp of smoke. When the smoke cleared, she saw Mider standing in the center of her cell. "Mider..." She reached for a handful of straw and threw it at him, but it landed harmlessly at his feet.

"No kind words from my former employer?" Mider said. Maeve scowled. "I see," he said. "Well I just came to deliver a message for you from your former tutor."

"So you're Nemain's errand-boy now?

Mider stepped gingerly on the stone floor of her cell. "If you please, I would like to deliver my message."

"Just deliver it and crawl back into whatever hole you crawled out of," Maeve said.

"Very well then. Nemain is going to make her move soon and I thought you would want to witness it." He handed her a clear marble. "Look here and you'll be able to bear witness to the fall of Kells." He set the marble down on the stone floor and left, leaving Maeve alone in her cell once more.

Maeve picked up the marble and rolled it around on her palm. The marble was smooth and cold to the touch, but she was more interested in why Mider had decided to give it to her than its physical properties. Was Mider really doing Nemain's bidding or was this his own little trick, a mocking final gesture to his former Queen? Whatever this was, there was no way she would tell Rohan or anybody about this boon that had been given to her. They would never believe her and besides, she might be able to find a way to use this somehow to her advantage. She didn't know how yet, but there was a possibility it could be very useful to her.

Kiaran made one last check on his men. This was not how he had planned things to go—he would much rather spend more time training his men and building up their strength—but his majesty had given her orders and it was his job to carry them out. He was a knight pledged to Lady Nemain; he was her hands and feet. His duty was to obey. Still, the Lady Nemain did grant him the permission to choose the place he was to attack and plan the strategy; she was not one of those arm-chair rulers who thought just because they had played a few rounds of chess meant that they knew all the ins and outs of combat.

Though he was young, he had already been in too many battles to count and truthfully, war seemed a pointless endeavor: a tired old game, where men fight and bleed over land, while faraway nobles held balls and debated strategies. He wasn't looking forward to fighting another one but Lady Nemain, he knew, was far wiser than any noble he had met. If she was pursuing war against Kells, then she must have a good reason.

Kells…This island was a strange one to him and stranger still were its people. He had talked with his men, shared beer with them, and sweated through training with them; through this he had learned much more than just their names. One of the chief things he had learned from the Temran soldiers was just how deep this feud ran. It was more a family feud than really a war; two cousins had split from one another and ever since, there had been a border between Kells and Temra and nothing but hatred between the two kingdoms. The border had been set by nobles and diplomats without any of the knowledge or input of the Temran peasantry or the Kellsmen. As such, many Temrans had relatives in Kells and many Kellsmen had relatives in Temra. Though it had been over a century since the feud wrenched the island in two, many still spoke of kin that had been left behind when the border was laid.

The Temrans were a tough people—they had lived through hard times and it was seldom they cracked a smile—but Kiaran had found that they too, had their share of prophecies. While the Kellsmen, he knew, believed in the Draganta prophecy, the Temran peasants had their own version of the story told in whispers around campfires.

Ever since the feud began, they had whispered predictions about someone mighty and strong who would set Temra in order. They had held onto that hope with each subsequent ruler and spoke of it still. Nemain had done much to give the Temrans hope that she was the one mighty and strong; she had almost single-handedly lifted Temra out of the impoverished state the last ruler left it in. Kiaran wasn't sure if she was the one sent to bring Temra into order, but she was the first good thing to happen to Temra in a while.

"Shall we attack now?" one of the soldiers, Bran said. Kiaran looked to the sky. "No, not yet."

He had divided his army in two and set one half away to attack a fort on the eastern side of Kells. The object of that attack wasn't to win, but to serve as a diversion, to help stem the flow of Kells's soldiers as long as possible, while they, the main body of troops, attacked the West Somerfield fort. West Somerfield, was a more attractive prize—if they could take it, it would give them access to the river, which they could use to attack other forts—but even that wasn't the main purpose of the attack. While Nemain had ordered this attack in hopes that she would reclaim a small corner of Kells, what she really hoped to prove to the Kellsmen was that Temra was not some dead dog, lying prostrate after being run into the ground by its former leader, but alive and strong. To aid him, she had given him a new weapon, a black, spiked club. "I can think of no warrior more deserving of this weapon," she said, as she presented it to him. "To gain its true power, say, 'the shadows surround me' and it will aid you in ways you can't imagine."

The weapon still hung at his side but he was hesitant to use it. He didn't trust in magic; he had seen too many good soldiers ripped apart by spells. But he took the weapon anyway as a token of his respect for Lady Nemain. He owed her his life and therefore, he trusted in her judgment. He would use this weapon, only if the need was great, he decided.

One of the soldiers shook with nervousness, clearly a green soldier, who hadn't experienced his first battle. "Will the Knights be there?" he asked.

He did not need to reveal which knights he was talking about; everyone knew he spoke of the Mystic Knights, the warriors given power by the little people of Tir Na Nog. One of the things, Kiaran was trying to train out of his men, was the almost supernatural awe in which they regarded the knights. Not that he took them lightly—he knew their weapons were great—but take away the weapons and they were ordinary people, was his view. Magic was only as great as the people who wielded it and he knew from experience that people get exhausted, need rest and food, magic-wielding or not.

There was a flash and a great red streak, like a bird, flew across the sky. Kiaran knew this was the signal of the other half, that they were ready and in place. He turned towards his men and ordered the attack on the fort.


	5. Chapter 5

Chronicles of Kells and Temra

This was the part he enjoyed the most: the early rush of battle, the warm dizzying feeling that made you feel invincible. They had caught West Somerfield off guard; most of the soldiers were asleep; and when they fell on it, they fell like a fierce storm.

They moved perfectly in sync with one another, each Temran seeming to know where they were needed. Kiaran was duly impressed; he had trained these men well. For their lack of experience, they were doing well. He couldn't have expected any better from them.

He ducked, dodging a blow from a Kellsman. He swung his club and it connected, denting the soldier's helmet. For all his hatred of war, he couldn't help but become intoxicated by it. It was in his blood; fighting was his profession and it was what he was good at. He was at his best when plotting and planning an attack or trying to survive in the heat of battle; he just never seemed to know what to do with himself in peacetime.

They were doing better than he thought they would. He must remember to give thanks to the other half of his forces, bravely holding out as long as they could in order to give them more time to take West Somerfield.

Then a cheer rose up from the host of Kellsmen. Kiaran didn't need to be told what had happened: the infamous Mystic Knights had arrived. "Be of good cheer," he shouted. "I shall handle them." But already his men's courage was shaken; despite his best efforts to dispel the superstitions surrounding the Knights, his men were still afraid of them. Still they had done well today; even if they lose, they will have accomplished what Nemain intended: to prove to Kells that Temra was not dead.

He peered over the wall. There were the infamous knights already armored and itching to fight. He had done his best to prepare for his confrontation with them, studying dossiers on each of the knights. Yet still, feeling their weapons' power for the first time, he couldn't help but stare in awe. But then he remembered: he too, had a mystic weapon.

He was a bit nervous about using it—again he never trusted much in magic—but he knew if his men were to keep their courage, they needed to see their leader standing strong against the enemy. He took his weapon in hand and whispered, "The shadows surround me."

Instantly, he felt himself changed. That was the only way he could think of to describe it. He had always scoffed at the tales sung by bards about plucky young heroes who become unstoppable warriors instant they put on armor. He was a knight, had been raised to be one since he was a child, and knew that fighting with armor took ages and ages of training to master. It takes forever just to learn how to move in the damn thing. Yet instant the mystic armor fell on him, he felt more alive than he ever had in a long time. He could move as lightly in this armor as he could in his civilian garb.

The Knights fell on him but he dodged their blows, turning into black smoke. As he fought, he laughed. Ah, the intoxication of battle. He had heard of many knights who succumbed to it, becoming machines who knew nothing better than to keep killing until something stopped him; it was a constantly struggle not to succumb to blood-lust, to keep one's head in the midst of the struggle.

He brought down his club and smashed the helm of the nearest knight. The knight reeled. Kiaran took a quick look around to see how his men were doing. Thankfully, they were standing strong. Some had fled but he knew that a few would flee; superstitious fear of the Knights was strong and he hadn't completely cured them of it. Still he was pleased to see that the majority had remained strong.

"Deirdre!" he heard Rohan cry. She had attacked the men attacking the fort. Kiaran watched as one of the men tumbled to the ground. He cried out as the men around him fled. "Please, don't leave me!"

"Don't leave me…" Kiaran felt the world spin under his feet as he remembered when he first met Lady Nemain. It felt like ages ago, but he still remembered. He had been injured, hurt badly, with blood soaking his tunic. He had felt so helpless, lying like a child, but as his fellow warriors retreated, fear rose within him and all he could do was cry like a child for help. Then Nemain came and rescued him. He knew what he must do now. He barked orders at his men and ran to help the fallen soldier. He helped the soldier to his feet, then he and the rest of his men retreated. There was no point in pushing this battle any further; he had proven his point to the Knights and to Kells: Temra was not dead, not yet.

The Knights returned to the castle, stunned and confused. They talked little on the way back, but they all agreed: this Shadow Knight or whatever he called himself was no Torc. Torc was a bully; he didn't care about his men and if one was injured, he simply left him for dead. They hoped that Cathbad would have more information on him, but when they arrived at the castle, they found he was as confused as the Knights.

"Maybe he is under a spell, as I was," Garrett said.

"No," Rohan said. "I know the eyes of one enspelled and his didn't match."

"So what are you saying?" Deirdre asked.

"I think what Rohan is saying is that whoever this guy is," Angus said, "he buys whatever Nemain is selling."

"What gets me," Ivar said, "is that he almost had us. We couldn't touch him. If he hadn't called off the battle, he could have won."

They all sighed. It had been a long day and the more they thought about the situation they were in, the more confused they became. They almost wished they were dealing with Torc; he was a small-minded bully, which was more comforting and predictable than the enemy they faced now. But they had won today, barely, but they had the upper hand for now.

Kiaran retired to his quarters. The intoxication of battle had worn off and now he felt as tired and achy as an old man. He had thanked his men for their hard work and courage and given them leave for the night. Right now, they were probably enjoying a few rounds of beer at the pub or maybe seeking out the docktown whores. He knew how men were when were they were tired and away from their families. He saw no reason to deny them release from their stress.

Nemain had been pleased with him, which gave him joy. It so pleased him to see his Lady happy with him.

He let his page help him with his leather tunic and coat of mail then dismissed him for the evening. Once his page was gone, he changed into his nightclothes and prepared to rest. Before he closed his eyes, he saw a ghost.

He found himself seeing ghosts ever since becoming part of Lady Nemain's service. It wasn't ghosts of men he had killed, though he knew he had killed quite a few in his service as a knight; it was another ghost entirely. "Lyanna…" he whispered. But she just smiled and disappeared, leaving him no closer to where he was in the first place.

Nemain, meanwhile, sat on her throne, conversing with Mider. A goddess doesn't need sleep. She had done well with her latest strategy. It was always good to give her playthings the idea that they could control the outcome of the game; it was no fun if they knew they were just puppets on a string, doing a dance for her. Kiaran was convinced that he owed her his life and that she could resurrect his sister and would do anything for her as thanks. None of it was true but it was helpful mythology in steering this fight the way she wanted it to go. She may have let him choose the place of attack, but it didn't really matter, where it happened, so long as the Knights showed up to stop him.

The Knights had showed up and little bug had done its work. She had sent a little bug to bite the Princess, a simple spell that heightens one's worse traits. Soon it would take effect and she could sit back and watch the fun unfold.

Of course, there was still the matter of Maeve to deal with. Mider may be confused as to why Nemain chose to bring her back to Kells, but Nemain had her reasons, chief among them was that Maeve was the wild card that made a game interesting. Maeve could go either way, either working to save Kells or helping to destroy it. Either way, she couldn't do much to tip the outcome one way or another, but it was fun to watch her try, to labor under the belief that she actually mattered.

Maeve, meanwhile, rested in her cell. Her shattered leg throbbed in agony but she kept a straight face and bore her pain bravely. She did not need the druid foisting one of his cocktails on her and causing her to lose her head and babble like a child. No, if she was ever to get out of here, she needed her senses to be sharp, not dulled by medicine.

Something was going on, that much she knew. Nemain had seen to it that she didn't die on the open sea or drown like the rest of the sailors aboard the ship and she had also sent Mider with that glass marble. The question was why? Why was Nemain going to so much trouble to spare her? She had studied with Nemain since she was twelve and still the Goddess's ways remained a mystery. All she knew was that Nemain was playing one of her games, positioning pieces on the board. The question was what was her role in all of this?


	6. Chapter 6

Chronicles of Kells and Temra Chapter Six

His lady kept him very busy fighting battles for her, getting into scuffles with those Mystic Knights, so busy he scarce had time to think on her, his dear twin, Lyanna. He still remembered how she look the last time he saw her. She had come into the world weak, with bad lungs and a bad heart; she must have known deep down inside that this would be their last time together. She was getting weaker—her lips appeared bluish—and he was to be sent away to be fostered at the home of his grandfather, the King of Galen. She gasped for breath as she spoke to him, begging him to cut a lock of her hair from her head. "Why?" he had asked.

"So you'll have something to remember me by," she said. He didn't think anything of it at the time; Lyanna was a strange child, always straddling the line between life and death, as their nurse put it. But the things she said had a strange habit of coming to pass. He recalled how she predicted the death of one of the court musicians, weeks before it happened. So when she asked him to cut a lock of her hair, he did and he saved that lock of hair, looked at it often as he trained under his grandfather's master-at-arms. Though weak, she and he shared the same hair, the colour of spun gold, and it gave him much pleasure to look at it and think on when he would be reunited with her on holiday.

Yet when he returned to his father's house, Lyanna wasn't there. Her room had been disassembled entirely, all her belongings and her things, gone. When he asked where she was, he was told, she had been sent to the sea shore for the sake of her lungs, and being a young boy of twelve, he believed them and trusted in their word; he had never been told not to. It wasn't until when he accidentally overheard the servants talking amongst themselves that he learned the truth: Lyanna had died and had been interred in the family tomb shortly after he had left.

When he learned the truth, it was like he split in two. He was angry at his father, angry at him for lying, yet he couldn't reveal his anger to the world; he had been drilled from day one that he was to play the part of the noble's son, to someday command his father's men and finances. Yet knowing the truth, he could no longer be the faithful son. So he rebelled, becoming a common knight, a footsoldier instead of a commander of armies. To do so, meant he had to renounce his claims to land and title, but he did this gladly; he could no longer be faithful to an unfaithful man.

He still had that lock of hair he had taken from his sister's head. He kept it in a pouch around his neck which he tucked beneath his leather tunic and mail coat. Nearly every knight he had ever served with had some sort of token they carried as a good-luck charm, usually a token from a lady; Lyanna's lock was his. He only took it out of its pouch late at night when he was tired, when he needed to remember the sister that had been his dearest friend.

He sighed as he studied a pile of maps and parchment on Kells. While war was intoxicating business, it was also terribly wearying. Maybe once Kells is conquered and Lady Nemain resurrects his sister, he would return to Galen, make amends with his father, and settle in the countryside. After so much violence, it would be nice to settle down, even if he's reduced to beating a living out of rocky hills due to having renounced his inheritance.

Deirdre kicked the ground, muttering a series of unladylike curses at the retreating Temrans. "Dammit!"

It had been another fruitless battle with Kiaran and his men. While at their first meeting, it seemed like Kiaran was trying to take Kells, these days it seemed more like he was sporting with them, like Nemain was using Kiaran to feel out Kells and its defenses. She was planning something big; they didn't know what.

"Relax," Angus said. "We won. Now let's just go back to the castle and have a pint and rest."

"This time we won. What if we aren't so lucky next time?" Deirdre was clearly in a foul mood, but that wasn't anything new to the nights. She had been in a foul mood ever since her father decided to trust Cathbad's counsel and spare Maeve's life. She had been so angry lately that she spent most of her time in training, target practice with her crossbow until her father had to order her to stop.

"But we did win, Princess, and I for one, am going to celebrate." Angus was clearly trying to goad her, a dangerous thing to do since she was handier with a sword than him. Rohan quickly stepped between the two. "Let's return to the castle. We can discuss strategy there."

They returned to the castle and began discussing strategy but truthfully Rohan was barely listening. His mind was elsewhere, thinking about his mother in the castle dungeons.

He wasn't a sentimental fool; he expected no motherly tenderness from her and didn't receive any. He had hoped at least to get from her information about Nemain, but she wasn't willing to divulge any information to him, but he didn't expect her to. Still part of him had hoped that maybe she would tell him about his father, but so far, he'd had no luck with that. Every time he asked her, she would tell him a different story. Sometimes his father was a demon she eloped with in order to gain power; sometimes he was some royal from a distant family; she'd even once said that his father was a common whore. No matter what, her story always changed and he knew he couldn't trust a word she said. Sometimes he agreed with Deirdre that Maeve should hang for returning to Kells, but he knew to trust Cathbad's counsel and besides if Maeve died, then he would never know who his father was.

"Rohan? Rohan? Are you listening?" Ivar asked.

Rohan stammered out an apology and turned back to the conversation.

"Fin Varra says there's no way to kill Nemain; we can only contain her. We have to remember we are not dealing with mortals anymore."

"But that can't be the whole truth!" Deirdre pounded the table. It was easy to understand her frustration; she had spent the past eleven years of her life under the threat of war and to find out that her enemy might not be possible to defeat, would gall any warrior.

"I'm sure there's a way," Rohan said. "Maybe there's something Cathbad hasn't found or Fin Varra hasn't heard of yet." He hoped there was for everyone's sake. He had a feeling that unlike Maeve, Nemain wasn't going to stop at Kells and that Kells's suffering would be far greater under the hands of a goddess than under the hands of a human.

"Well your mother sure hasn't been much help," Deirdre said.

"Deirdre!" They were all shocked; Rohan looked wounded.

"Why are we even bothering," Deirdre began, "to feed and shelter someone who's tried to kill us several times? I doubt she'd ever return the favour."

Rohan stared silently at the map. Though she was talking about his mother, part of him still felt the sting of Deirdre's words. A part of him would always be connected to Maeve whether he liked it or not.

"It doesn't matter if she'd return the favour or not," Ivar said. "The point is she's under your father's protection. Her life is not yours to take." And then she stormed off, leaving the rest of the knights alone.

Angus and Rohan quietly slipped away from the castle. Though both of them knew that they were welcome to stay in the castle and sup with the King and his family any time they liked, they very seldom took the King up on his offer. Even though Rohan knew that technically he was a prince by birth, the title still felt very strange to him. He had grown up just another peasant boy, orphaned and running around wild for years, not in the comforts of a castle.

He and Angus ate, occasionally chatting about how Deirdre seemed to have even more of a temper than usual, but Rohan's heart wasn't in the food or in the conversation.

Angus quickly polished off his meal and looked up from his bowl. "What's wrong? You're awful quiet today."

"It's nothing." Rohan sighed.

"That sigh always means something. So tell me, what's going on? Did Pyre snap at you or something?"

"It's my father or my mother rather. Maeve won't tell me who my father was."

"Well you can't expect a straight answer from the likes of her."

"I know that," Rohan said, still stinging from Deirdre's words. "But I still hoped she could tell me something about him."

"You're hoping that someone in your family had a good heart, right?" Angus said.

Rohan nodded.

"Well take it from someone who also has no idea who their daddy was," Angus said, "and relax. You know, I don't even know who either of my parents were. My mother was in all likelihood one of the Docktown whores and my father could have been any of the men she slept with. It doesn't really matter. Whether my daddy was a Prince or just some drunk with some coins to rub together, it doesn't change who I am. I am a Mystic Knight and I'm damn proud of it and you should be too."

Rohan sighed. Angus was right. Whether his father was a whore or a demon or a prince didn't change the fact that he was a Mystic Knight, one of Kells's chosen protectors. Even if Maeve died before she ever breathed a word of his father's identity, it didn't matter. Still, he couldn't help but wonder.


	7. Chapter 7

Chronicles of Kells and Temra Chapter Seven

Fin Varra was not looking well. The more Nemain made her move, the more aged the ageless fairy king seemed to appear. Nemain was working deep magic, deeper than any fairy magic, deeper than even Fin Varra's magic; even fairies must bow before a goddess's authority.

There wasn't much to talk about. They had already tried asking him about Kiaran and his mystic weapon, but while he confirmed Rohan's suspicions that Kiaran wasn't enspelled, he couldn't tell him much about where his mystic weapon originated, save that it was a corrupted weapon, a weapon not of the ones created by the original craftsmen.

There had been six weapons originally crafted and six craftsmen who made them. Only five weapons remained, the sixth having been destroyed in a fight between gods, centuries ago. That great battle, fought between gods and goddesses, fairy and human as well, had nearly wiped out every participant, mortal and immortal alike and Fin Varra's greatest fear was it occurring again. He had been what the fairies considered a child then and he still remembered the destruction wrought and was afraid to see it happen again.

"It won't," Rohan said. He didn't know how he was going to prevent it but he would. He was Draganta and he'd find a way.

"But what about this sixth weapon?" Garrett asked. "Are there any records remaining of it?"

"Unlikely," Fin Varra said. "After the war, the last of the six craftsmen destroyed all notes on the weapons so no one could ever remake them."

"I see," Rohan said.

"So how are we going to stop Nemain?" Ivar asked.

"I've already told you that you can't. Nemain is immortal and can only be contained, not destroyed. She is playing a game with you and the only way to win is to convince her that it's not worth the trouble." Fin Varra took a long draught of some dark liquid. He really did look ancient in the eyes of the knights.

"Those are people she's playing with, though." Deidre spoke in a calm, level tone, a tone that barely disguised the anger raging inside her. Even Angus knew not to push her right now.

"Nemain doesn't see it that way, though. To someone as aged as her, you are flies, doomed to short lives anyway, so where's the harm in using a few of you for entertainment anyway."

Deirdre turned red and looked ready to explode with rage, but before she could, Fin Varra spoke again. "She is setting up an elaborate game involving everyone on this island and beyond. I would suggest you take care that you are not playing right into her hands." And with that Fin Varra dismissed them, sinking back onto his throne with exhaustion.

The knights split up, Garrett and Ivar going in search of Cathbad. The Druid had been gone from the castle the past few days, gone on a trip to find "information," he said. Neither the King nor the knights knew where he had gone, though there were rumours he was hanging around the docks. The docks, everyone knew, were the seamier side of Kells, where smuggling and prostitution and all matter of illegal deeds took place, but the docks were also a meeting place for people of all different nationalities and backgrounds. Therefore, it might be possible for Cathbad to get a hold of parchment from faraway places that might tell them how to defeat Nemain.

Deirdre still looked angry about Fin Varra's words and Rohan had to admit, he understood why. To be told that the enemy you're facing, the one who wants to kill and destroy everything you care about, can't be defeated, angered him as well. "Deirdre?" Rohan said. She stopped and turned towards him. "What?"

"I was just wondering if you wanted to come with me to feed Pyre," Rohan said.

For a second, Deirdre appeared to be the gracious and polite princess her father had raised her to be. "I'm sorry," she said in clipped tones, "but I have business to tend to at the castle." She then turned and walked away.

Angus watched her retreating figure. "She's mad. Trust me on this one, Rohan."

"She has good reason to be and since when are you the expert on women."

"What do you mean? I've been with more women than you."

Rohan smiled. "And just look at your track record of success. Didn't the last one you dated try to set you on fire?"

"Touché. But take it from me, Deirdre's pissed about something and when she's angry, she's liable to do just about anything. I'd stay away from her if I was you."

"Maybe you're right." And with that the two friends parted ways.

Maeve slept. As she slept, she dreamed of the first man she had let into her life, the one man she had considered her equal, the one man she had truly loved. Oh, she could remember so much about him. The way he stood, the way he talked, how wonderful it felt when he touched her. He haunted her now, even in death. "Dareon…" She breathed and for a moment, she could almost smell his scent.

"Hello, Maeve." Maeve snapped out of her reverie and looked towards the bars of her cell. There, standing in front of her cell was the Princess of Kells, armed with her crossbow.

Maeve smiled. "Why Hello, Deirdre, and welcome to my humble abode. I'd offer to show you around but as you can plainly see, there really isn't much to see."

"Can it, Maeve. I'm sick of you playing games with us. Now start talking or I blast you through the walls."

"Really? You want me to talk? Well, I'll start at the beginning. I was born in Temra to my father's second wife in wintertime. My mother died in childbed when I was two. My father did take a third wife, but she shortly disappeared when I was very small so I have little memory of her. When I was five or six, my father and I had a row and he broke my arm, which taught me a valuable lesson which is…"

"Shut up!" Deirdre's voice echoed through the dungeons. "I mean, I want information about Nemain!"

"And what will you do if I don't give you the information you desire so much? Kill me?"

"That's exactly what I intend to do." Deirdre pointed her crossbow at Maeve. "Now I'm warning you; start talking or else."

Maeve swallowed a lump in her throat. "So you really intend to do it? To go against the law laid down by your dear father and kill me?"

"I'm his only child and heir. He wouldn't dare have me hang for killing the likes of you."

"True," Maeve said, "he is disgustingly sentimental. Besides if you are clever enough, you could easily get away with it. Just pin it on some common soldier, someone like Angus who lacks the brains and family ties needed to get out of this kind of trouble." She paused. "But before you do kill me, I must commend you, dear princess; you do have the heart of a ruler after all. Your father never did; he never did have the stomach to do what needed to be done, but you, on the other hand, know the only way to squelch a threat is to eliminate it. Bravo!" Maeve clapped.

Deirdre lowered her crossbow and staggered away from the cell. "I'm not…I'm not…" She looked pale as she repeated those words over and over to herself. Then her eyes went wide and she turned and ran away, crossbow in tow.

Maeve slunk back onto her bed of straw, her leg still throbbing with pain. In spite of the pain, she smiled. Did Nemain really think she wouldn't recognize the eyes of someone enspelled? She was a former sorceress after all. But now that Deirdre was gone, she found herself wondering what was the point of this game Nemain was playing.

Maeve knew Nemain wouldn't have let Deirdre kill her, not after going to so much trouble to bring her to Kells and making sure she survived the shipwreck. No, if Nemain had really wanted her dead, she'd be dead; there was some other plan at work here. She could only hope Deirdre was smart enough not to get entangled in it.

Deirdre ran, ignoring the leaves and branches that crunched under her boots. It wasn't long before she became aware that someone was following her. "Aideen?" she said.

"Deirdre, what are you doing out at this hour?" the fairy asked.

"I'm going to find Cathbad. Maybe he can help me."

"Help you? What's going on here?"

She turned to Aideen, eyes wide with fear. "I nearly did something, Aideen, something I would have regretted every day for the rest of my life. I have to find Cathbad so it doesn't happen again."

"But at this hour of the night and at the docks?" Aideen protested, but it did little to sway Deirdre. Once she had set her mind to something, it was hard to sway her.

She ran and ran until she saw a light in the forest. She paused to catch her breath. "That's Gurdon light, magic light. Maybe that's Cathbad setting up camp for the night."

Aideen tried to protest but the Princess would not be swayed. She crept through the forest, until she came to the source.

Someone had been here. The Gurdon light sat at the centre of the camp, shining in the midst of the darkness. Around the light were dull-coloured canvas tents. "Cathbad?"

Then a cloud of black smoke appeared, coalescing into the Knight of Shadows. "Ill met by moonlight, dear Princess," he whispered. Deirdre turned to run but before she could, strong arms were around her. A cloth was pressed over her nose and mouth. Her head spun as she breathed in the sweet-smelling liquid that soaked the cloth.

The last thing she did, before her world faded to black, was drop her crown on the ground. 


	8. Chapter 8

Chronicles of Kells and Temra Chapter Eight

Her eyes fluttered open. Around her the world spun. Her stomach churned; she could feel its contents threatening to come up, but she had been gagged. A pair of hands removed the gag and she vomited. She hadn't felt this sick in a long time.

It took her awhile to fully remember. She had tried to kill Maeve, fled to find Cathbad, only to get captured by the Knight of Shadows, who was here now, wiping the vomit from her face. "Nasty stuff that licour is. I've had it a few times myself. Makes you sick as a dog afterwards. Are you done yet?" Deirdre nodded, still shaky. He reached for the gag and started to tie it back. "No, wait," Deirdre said. "Please don't. Listen I promise I'll stay quiet; I won't scream or shout; just don't gag me again."

Kiaran looked thoughtful. "Very well, I suppose there's little danger. We've crossed the border anyway. But I promise if you start making noise, I will gag you. I have strict orders from my Lady to bring you to her alive and I intend to do it."

Deirdre relaxed a little. Her arms and legs were still bound and her crossbow hung on Kiaran's belt, but as long as she wasn't gagged, maybe she could convince him to let her go. The only question was how. If she was dealing with Torc than attacking his ego or appealing to his greed would do the trick, but she wasn't dealing with Torc, not anymore.

Kiaran still puzzled her. Why did he attack her people? From what little she knew, he was a foreign-born prince with no ties, not even economical ones, to either Kells or Temra, so why did he serve Nemain? Maybe if she knew that, she could influence him to serve Kells instead.

"Well let's get a move on. We've rested long enough," Kiaran said to his men. The men began dismantling the campsite and concealing their tracks. The Gurdon light was returned to its lantern and they began moving on.

The mood at the castle was somber as the Knights debated what to do next. Cathbad had returned, looking more ancient than ever. He listened politely to their conversation.

"She'd have to be in Temra by now," Rohan said.

"Perhaps, Nemain will ransom her," Ivar said.

"We can't count on that; we have to rescue her."

The others nodded in grim agreement, but Cathbad spoke. "Much as I agree with you, we cannot afford to rush into Temra and leave Kells unguarded."

"So you're saying we should stay here and leave her in the hands of the Temrans," Rohan said.

"No, no." Cathbad waved his hands. "I'm just saying we should proceed cautiously." He turned to Aideen. "Now you say she headed to the forest near the docks?"

Aideen nodded. "She was looking for you."

Cathbad sighed, still pained. "And I was away gathering information. I should have been there."

"Damn right, you should have been," Angus said.

"Angus!" Rohan said.

"No wait, I want some information myself. Just where have you been and what have you found out?"

Cathbad raised a hand. "I wish I could tell you, but I can't be sure of the veracity of the information I've gathered. Until I am, you're just going to have to trust my judgment."

Angus looked ready to pounce, but he didn't. Instead he muttered a few curses under his breath.

"So what do we do now?" Rohan asked.

"Simple," the druid said, "You and Ivar will track the Princess. Garrett and Angus, you will stay here in case Nemain decides to attack."

All the nights nodded in agreement except for Angus who muttered curses under his breath.

The trail was twisting, rough, and bumpy, leaving Deirdre with bruises all over. There wasn't much in the hay wagon she rode in to cushion her from the bounces and jolts from the trail. A few times she worried she'd bounce right out of the wagon.

It was obvious what Kiaran was trying to do: he was keeping them on the move to try and throw off any pursuers, by keeping the trail as twisted and gnarled as possible. It was the most sensible thing for anyone in his position to do.

Occasionally though, he and his men had to stop to rest or to feed and water the horses and it was then Deirdre tried talking to him.

If he was Torc, she would merely taunt him, but Kiaran wasn't Torc. She couldn't count on him to be tripped up by his own sense of greed or temper; she had to be careful. Instead, she asked about him, his life and his family, hoping that in doing so, she might find a weak spot she can use to escape.

He talked little, only giving the bare minimum needed to answer her questions, but she did learn a few things. He was royalty like her, a prince from the land of Galen. When she remarked on the coincidence that they were both royalty, he laughed. "Princes are a dime a dozen where I'm from. I'm thirteenth in line to the throne."

"I see," Deirdre said. Still the question, what a prince from Galen was doing in Kells, went unasked. She remembered from her lessons in geography that Galen was a wealthy nation, unaffiliated with Kells or Temra in any way. "Does your family know you're here?"

He laughed again. "Not likely. I've traded hands so many times they likely think I'm dead by now. They don't expend energy for someone only thirteenth in line for the throne."

"I see." She couldn't help but feel sad for him that no one in his family cared that he was gone. If she knew her father, and she did, right now, every soldier in Kells was probably tasked with finding her and bringing her back. "What about your father though? Wouldn't he care?"

Kiaran's face darkened. "Not bloody likely. Now c'mon, it's time we moved on." He turned to his group of knights, barked out a few quick orders, and they moved on.

Idly Deirdre wondered what was to happen to her once she reached the castle. If she were in Maeve's hands, Maeve would either ransom her, which would be the most likely option because both Maeve and Deirdre knew that her father valued her over his crown, and would likely only kill her if holding her hostage proved difficult. But what about Nemain? It occurred to her that Nemain so far had been fighting with one hand tied behind her back. Why? Was it because this was all a game to her and that if she wanted, she could crush Kells like a bug? She is a goddess after all.

Deirdre suddenly felt very afraid. Nemain might not even bother with the ransom at all. She might just kill her for the sheer fun of it.

When they camped for the night, they loosed the Gurdon light, to provide warmth and light for the area, and, to Deirdre's surprise, the knights, these rough Temran soldiers, started singing. Their songs were strangely familiar to her; in fact, they were the same tunes she had heard from the soldiers stationed at the castle she grew up in. The sight was a strange one; she had long thought of the Temrans as a bunch of brutes who only lived in hopes of someday killing her and her countrymen, but here they were singing the same songs she grew up with. It made her ache inside as she remembered what Cathbad told her once that the Temrans and the Kellsmen were related to one another and that the war, which had raged since before she was born, was really a family feud.

She turned to Kiaran who sat silently watching the woods for signs of trouble. He saw the questioning look on her face and he shrugged. "I let them sing. We're far enough into Temra that it won't matter and it's good for morale. War's rough on a man."

She wanted to retort that it was rough on women, too, but she kept her mouth shut. "Really?"

He looked at her. "You think your people are the only ones suffering. At least your last ruler didn't drive their country into the ground pursuing war against her enemies."

This was not new information to her. She had heard reports that Temra was deep in debt and was facing a hard winter following a harvest that had been disappointing at best, and she could tell just by looking at the grizzled warriors' gaunt cheeks that they had known some hard times.

"Nemain's the first hope this country's had in a while," Kiaran said. His men nodded in agreement and continued to sing.

Finally Deirdre felt the courage to ask the question. "Why do you serve her? Your country has no ties to either Kells or Temra."

"Nemain saved my life; I am forever in my lady's debt," he answered, terse as always.

But she is a monster, Deirdre wanted to respond, but she knew well enough to keep her mouth shut at times like these. Besides Nemain wasn't a monster to the Temrans who were getting their first stable ruler in a long time. Cathbad had once said to her that in Temra, every time a new heir was born, its countrymen would hold its breath for they knew that there were only two fates awaiting them: the heir would either be destined for greatness or madness. No one knew why there was such a strong propensity towards madness in the Temran line, but the country had suffered through two mad rulers back to back and it showed. Under circumstances like these, Nemain would seem a breath of fresh air. She remembered how her father said that in Kells there had been great hope when Maeve took the throne after her father, the Mad King Ruarc, had died, hope that maybe there would be a new leader, one that wasn't as stricken with the madness that poisoned the Temran line. But Maeve had been as determined, maybe even more so, to take Kells and the war continued.

Kiaran divided his men into two groups, sending one group to scout ahead and the other to check to see if anyone was on their trail and if they were, to slow them down by any means necessary, leaving him and Deirdre alone.

"You should be up for some nourishment by now," Kiaran said as he reached into his saddlebags.

Out of the corner of her eye, Deirdre could see Aideen fluttering. She gritted her teeth and silently prayed that Aideen not make a scene, not when she finally had Kiaran alone. To her relief, the fairy flew away but that meant that Rohan and the others would soon be here, a source of relief but also worry for her.

Kiaran fed her a hard biscuit along with some dried meat. It wasn't hearty food but she tried to look grateful.

"Thank you," she said.

He shrugged. "It was nothing." He took a few quick bites himself before setting the food back in the saddlebags.

There was silence for a few moments as both of them studied each other. Deirdre held her tongue as she tried to think of her next move. Normally she would be quick with taunts and witty retorts, but those wouldn't work on Kiaran; that much she knew. The question is what would?

The Gurdon light at the center of the clearing continued to flicker and burn. Before Deirdre could open her mouth to say anything, it had transformed itself into the image of Nemain.

"I see you have accomplished what you set out to do, my general," she said.

"I have, your grace." He dropped to his knees in a deep bow. "I am nearing the castle. Soon the princess will be in your hands."

"Never mind that," Nemain said, "she is of no use to me."

"What do you wish for me to do with her?" he asked.

"Kill her." And with that, the image of Nemain disappeared. Kiaran looked at Deirdre and reached for the dagger on his belt. The steel shown bright under the Gurdon light.


	9. Chapter 9

Chronicles of Kells and Temra

Chapter Nine

Deirdre stared at the dagger and back at Kiaran. "You can't be serious!" Her tongue tangled in knots as she tried to think of the right words to talk him out of this madness. She should have known better: being honourable isn't always a good thing. An honourable knight, one who always follows the will of his master even when the master has gone mad, can be a terrible thing to behold. She could only hope that there was some amount of reason left in him, some place she could reach him. Or at least stall him until her comrades showed up to rescue her.

She had always tried to downplay her femininity. She knew she had come into the world during a time when Kells needed a male heir rather than a female, so she had always strived not to seem feminine and weak, but now, she knew she had to play the helpless damsel card for all it was worth. "Please don't…don't do this…" To her surprise, she felt tears come down her cheeks. "Where's the honour in killing a bound prisoner?"

He frowned. "You're right; there isn't any honour in this." He shoved the dagger into the dirt beside him and paused.

Deirdre lifted her head. "So are you going to let me go?"

"My men will soon return; they can only stall yours for so long." He wasn't talking to her; he was talking to himself, ruminating, trying to figure out to do next. "But there is no honour in killing you with your hands bound." He took up the dagger again and Deirdre felt her heart clench. But to her surprise, he cut the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles. Deirdre breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to feel the circulation returning to her hands. "So now what?" she asked.

"We fight." He held out her crossbow to her. "I'll tell Nemain that your knights overpowered my men and bought enough time for you to slip through my fingers. I say you overpowered me if she asks. Now take your weapon."

Deirdre took her crossbow and fired, throwing him against the tree. She did not need to be told what to do next: she was free, free to return to Kells.

"We shall meet again, princess," she heard Kiaran say, "and when we meet, it shall be in battle."

Rohan ducked before launching more flames at the Temrans. The soldiers were getting bolder; they were losing their superstitious fear of the knights. Kiaran had trained them well.

They had barely sent the soldiers off, when Deirdre came to them, her body bruised from a rough ride and her wrists swollen. "Hey," she said casually, as though her sudden reappearance was no big deal.

"Your highness," Ivar said as he ran to examine her.

"I'm fine," she said. "Just please take me home."

Maeve stirred from her sleep. She had dreamed of him again. Dareon… O Gods, why was it that man still had power over her. Her body still hungered for his touch, his voice still lingered in her ears, and she still remembered that smile of his.

He had been the one man she could never match in battle. He too, was one of Nemain's students—Nemain collected pupils based on how much they interested her—and while she had been able through years of study and hard training, hold her on against most of Nemain's pupils, she could never beat him. He was clever, too clever; that was why she killed him.

Their relationship had deteriorated with the birth of their son. It had been a condition Nemain had forced her to agree on before she would take her on as a student, that she would pledge her firstborn to her service. It seemed a reasonable proposition: she could always have more children and children seldom did well in harsh Temra. At the time of the arrangement with Nemain, she had envisioned herself claiming the Temran throne, conquering Kells, and having a long reign as Queen before passing her legacy onto her children. If she had to sacrifice a child to Nemain's service in order for this to happen, then so be it.

Truthfully when she discovered, shortly after her father's death, that she was with child, she was a little frightened. Her father had left a poisonous legacy with women: his first wife died in childbed before she was ever born, her own mother had lived only two years before dying in childbed, and her father's third wife had disappeared. She had never had a mother and her father ignored her for the most part, so she had been raised by servants and tutors sent by nobles who were concerned about the education and deportment of the future heir. She hadn't expected to become pregnant so soon—she had planned on waiting until she conquered Kells so she could deliver a united kingdom to her future children—but when she did, she threw herself wholeheartedly, vowing that she would be a far better parent to her child than her father was to her.

But the birth of her child proved to be the beginning of the end of her and Dareon's relationship. She didn't know why. She tried, honestly she did, but she couldn't stop everything from changing. She didn't know why Dareon had been so opposed to her sending their child to be raised by Nemain; they had both been raised by Nemain and it had made them strong. But he was opposed. She never knew why; now that she was growing old, rotting in the King's dungeon, she wished she did. Nevertheless when one day she awoke, found her babe missing from his cradle and her husband gone, well, no one had to draw her a diagram: she knew very well what had happened.

She sent out her men to comb the countryside. They found Dareon just a few miles from the border and dragged him back in irons. But her baby was nowhere to be found. They searched every inch of Temra, but none of her men found her baby.

She questioned Dareon personally for hours, in tears most of the time, because deep down, she still believed their relationship could be salvaged if he would just tell her where her baby was. But he would just laugh and say, "I don't know."

That was Dareon's way. He was a trickster, one who played the handsome fool, who allowed others to laugh at him behind his back. Of course, only those who had never done battle with him could laugh at him. She couldn't laugh at him then, not with the future of her kingdom at stake. After a few fruitless hours of questioning, she turned him over to Rafe, her head gaoler.

Head gaoler…head torturer was more like it. He was one of the few of her father's appointees that survived his reign, partly because both her father and he shared a deep cruel streak. She knew what Rafe was capable of—she had witnessed him at work many times—yet she turned the one man she had ever loved to him.

Rafe did his work, depriving Dareon of food and sleep, blistering him, beating him, working him over with all manner of implements, yet no matter what, Dareon, bruised and bleeding would only say, "I don't know," when asked again where the Queen's child was. Eventually, Maeve realized she would never break him. She could bury him alive, torture him for thousands of years, but he would always say, "I don't know." Nothing she could do would break him.

She wasn't sure why; she still isn't. Towards the end of Rafe's session, Dareon's body had been reduced to mostly blood and pulp, yet he still smiled. She used to love that smile, but now she couldn't stand it any longer.

She went to a device her father had ordered his mechanics to build. His father had considered himself the Dragon King come again, and as the Dragon King, felt the only deserving fate for his enemies was fire. So he had a great furnace built in order to burn his enemies alive in.

She utilized the furnace, stoking the fires as high as they would go, and she showed Dareon the flames, yet still he would not confess. He went into the furnace still smiling and the last thing she saw, as the flames consumed him, was his smile. It haunted her still.

There was so much she regretted. She regretted not marching her troops across the border in search of her son, but if she had done that, the king would have interpreted it as an act of war, and she was not yet prepared to face the Kellsmen in battle. But she should have done it anyway: he was her son and worth the sacrifice.

She also regretted that she never named her child before he was taken from her. Life in Temra was hard—babies seldom survived to their first birthday—so she had followed custom and not given her baby a name. She wasn't sure what name she would have given him. Originally she had planned to name him after the first human king to rule over the island, King Ragnvald, but now she was unable to see him as anything but Rohan.

She cursed herself for her soft-heartedness. Rohan, the blood of her blood, was her enemy. She would do well to remember it. He would never help her take back Temra and reunite the island under her rule; she needed to let go of that idea. Whatever the future held for her, she could only rely on herself to get herself back on the throne.

Deirdre had left before she had finished telling her story about her father. King Ruarc, referred to as the Mad King of Temra by both Kellsmen and Temrans alike, had never had much use for her. She was a daughter, not the strong son he craved; women hadn't ruled Temra in generations. So he paid her little mind, letting her run around in rags and eat scraps from the trash like a vagrant rather than feasting like an heir. She seldom saw her father, and therefore could not really be said to love him, which was fine with her. He frightened her with his bright, gleaming eyes and love of fire, and he hated her, both because of her sex but also for the mark on her arm.

That mark…King Ragnvald, who had rode onto the island atop a great black dragon, and took the land from the fairy folk, had born the mark and for generations until the war first broke out, descendants of his line bore the mark as well. It disappeared after the first civil war, when most of the family was destroyed by those bastard royals who called themselves Kellsmen, only to reemerge when she was born. Yet another mystery she didn't understand, but it angered her father; the common folk trusted in signs and marks and if they knew she had the mark but he didn't, it might cast doubts on his legitimacy as a ruler. It was the kind of logic that only made sense of a madman but then again, her father wasn't called the Mad King for nothing.

She still remembered the day he broke her arm. She was five or six, running around the castle chasing after one of the stray cats, when she stumbled into the throne room. Without saying a word, her father bent down, picked up the cat, and wrapped his round fingers around its neck. She ran at him, fought with him, but he did not let go until the cat was dead. Then without saying a word, he grabbed her arm and broke it.

She doesn't remember much about the pain. She had heard somewhere that the mind does not remember pain, and for that she is grateful. But it must have hurt. But as the healer was setting her bone, she realized something: she could not count on her father to give her the throne as his father had given him. Nor could she count on the Kellsmen to finally recognize her as their true ruler as she had hoped. No, if she wanted it, she was going to have to become strong and fight for it and ever since, she has spent her life fighting.

She reached for the marble that Mider had given her and peered into. Right now, Deirdre was before the court, telling of her ordeal at the hands of the Knight of Shadows. Idly Maeve wondered if she would mention the part where she tried to kill her; she didn't count on it.

She turned away. Right now, looking at her son was too painful; he was so much like his father, more than he knew.

She was tired, tired of looking at the King's warm and lovely hall while she was stuck in a cold dungeon, but most of all, she was tired of fighting, but she knew she must keep fighting. Her leg was healing up; the druid said in a few days, she could start putting weight on it, though she would always walk with a limp. She should be thankful for small favours.

She laid back on her bed of straw and fell into a dreamless sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

1Chronicles of Kells and Temra

Chapter Ten

Kiaran bowed before his Queen, not bothering to look her in the eye, as he told her of his failure to kill the Princess. He kept his tale brief; he told the truth but he told it slant. He left out how he had broken the Princess's bonds and given her back her crossbow. But other than that, he told the truth. "I understand if you want to assign someone else to serve as your general," Kiaran said.

"No I do not," said Nemain. "I still have use for you yet. I have alliances to be made and you have men to train and prepare for battle."

"When and where do you intend to send us next?" Part of him knew the answer before Nemain said it, but still when she said, "The Heart," he shuddered. He knew exactly what she meant by that: she wanted him to strike at the Castle where the Princess of Kells and her father lived.

He had been in many sieges. Most of the time, a siege was a dull affair, simply surrounding the fort and trying to starve the inhabitants out, but he knew Nemain didn't have that kind of slow, torturous battle in mind. She wanted the castle and wanted it quickly. "I will begin working towards that end, my liege."

"Very well, you may leave and go to your men," said Lady Nemain.

As soon as Kiaran was gone, Mider appeared. "Do you honestly believe that story he told you about the knights and the Princess over-powering him?"

"Of course not," said Nemain. "You think me a fool? But right now, he is still useful to us, even if he's turning out to be too noble for his own good. "

She then rose from her throne. "I am leaving. I have alliances I need to forge." And she disappeared.

Kiaran massaged his temples. Studying by candlelight always gave him a headache, but he had work to do. He resumed looking over the maps, trying to imagine where his men would go on the field, but his thoughts kept returning to the Princess and her father. He wondered what would happen to them once Nemain took the island. "Probably put their heads on pikes." That was the way of war: it wasn't kind to losers. But their fate was his lady's to decide, not his. Whatever happened, he must remember that.

A cold breeze blew out his candle, enveloping the room in darkness. He looked around. How had the breeze gotten in; the only window was shut. Then he heard a voice, his dear sister's voice say, "Remember."

He rubbed his eyes. He was working too hard; he needed rest. But a good night's rest would not come; he spent the night tossing and turning.

Cathbad watched the men training in the yard. Kells was bracing itself for a tough fight. It was the deep of winter and if Nemain laid siege to the castle, they would have to survive on whatever rations they could. But maybe that was her plan: a war of attrition. If that was her plan, it seemed like it was succeeding. Kells was growing weary of this war. It meant shortages as everything was geared towards funding the war, but he knew the stakes were too high, the cost too great if the King should back down. Idly he wondered if the war would continue even when Deirdre ascended the throne.

The war had gone on for so long, he wondered if there was a generation on the island who could remember when it had not been. Kells had changed hands many times, occasionally being united under the iron rule of Temran kings, only for another generation to break free and reestablish the border. Occasionally Kells had ruled over Temra but peace in these situations was always tenuous at best. Both sides bristled at being ruled over by the other, so usually it didn't take long for war to break out again.

The King had called upon his allies to assist. Reged was sending soldiers to aid their Prince, as was Princess Lynette, and Ivar's land, while unable to send men, were sending much needed supplies. But ships are slow even in the best of times, let alone during winter when there's often ice on the waters. Besides the brunt of the fighting would still be borne by the Kellsmen who are increasingly growing weary.

He knew the prophecies about Draganta. He had spent many hours studying them and had gone to the docks, hoping to gain new information from travelers, but so far even his fellow druids seemed not to know how Draganta might bring peace to the island.

He sighed, feeling far older than his years. He could only hope that Kells hold out.

The great black dragon hissed, smoke streaming from its nostrils, as Kiaran prostrated himself before it. It was not the dragon the great King Ragnvald had rode in on, but he didn't care. Lady Nemain had sent him to bring a dragon into their alliance and that's what he intended to do.

He was a spiteful creature this dragon, hissing and spitting as Kiaran recited the incantation. It was a miracle really that the dragon hadn't already been slain; from what he heard, the people of this forsaken country made a practice of offering sacrifices to this beast, believing it to be a god of some kind. He could understand how they could see it that way: a dragon was a terrible thing to behold.

This was the first time he had seen one outside of the storybooks he and Lyanna used to read together and truthfully, he was terrified. Were it not for the vows he'd sworn, he would run, run far away back to his home country where dragons were safely dead. But he had sworn his vows.

As soon as he had finished the incantation, calm came over the beast and to Kiaran's surprise, soon the dragon was as obedient as a hound. But Kiaran was still worried: from what he had read, most dragons seemed to have a flexible morality. He only hoped that in the battle, the dragon, otherwise known as Malaris, harm only the red dragon and not harm his men, but that was a foolish thing to hope for. For no matter how this battle went, people on both sides would be harmed. War cannot exist without bloodshed; he was a fool to think it was possible.

Gods help him; he couldn't seem to escape from war. It seemed the only thing he was good at; he never seemed to know what to do with himself in a time of peace. But everything must come to an end sooner or later. Whether he takes the castle or not, this will be his last battle, he decided.

Aideen spent much of her time, flying to and from the castle, keeping them informed about the latest Temran movements. It wasn't easy—Nemain was playing her cards close to her chest—but all signs pointed to an attack on the castle. Nemain was moving her pieces into play, but so were the Kellsmen. King Conchobar had doubled the number of men stationed at the castle. Supplies were being even more strictly rationed than usual in case of a long siege.

Angus and Rohan too, had been called to the castle. Everyone knew an attack was coming and they wanted all the mystic knights in place so they'd be ready when it did. Sleeping in the castle was always a strange experience for the two of them. It was strange sleeping in a stone building and having servants tend to them, and neither felt very comfortable with the situation, but they were needed at the castle so they did their best to comply with the King's orders.

Maeve, meanwhile, rested in the King's dungeon. Were it not for the solid stone walls and iron bars that surrounded her, she probably could have escaped with ease. Most of the dungeon guard had been pulled away from their duties and sent to man the castle walls, so she was left alone, when she received a rather surprising visitor.

"My lady…" Mider gave a short little bow. But Maeve was not amused. "What is it?" she said through clenched teeth. She would have started hollering for the guards but she wasn't sure if she could call on them without having to explain Mider's previous visits, and if they found out about those…best not to think about that.

"My lady, please…" Mider said and now Maeve was curious. Was it just her or did he look frightened? Just what could frighten a fairy with as black a heart as Mider's?

He offered up a few trinkets: a bottle of a purple liquid and a magical key, before he left, leaving her alone in her cell. She studied the key carefully, wondering if it could open the door to her cell, but decided not to try it, not yet anyway.

It was the small vial of purple liquid that fascinated her the most. She sniffed at it; it had the distinct aroma of Dreamwine. Dreamwine, she knew freed the soul from its body, enabling one to travel great distances while the body remained behind. With this stuff, Maeve knew she could see everything on the island if she wanted to, but why would Mider give this to her. Was it poison? Maybe Nemain wanted to wrap up a loose end, but if that was the case, why now? Why not out on the open sea? But she remembered Mider and how frightened he looked when he had visited her. Just what was going on? She sniffed the vial again. It smelled like Dreamwine; perhaps it was safe for her to drink. She wished she had a rat or something to test it on, but there wasn't time for that. She looked at the purple liquid sloshing around in the little vial, pinched her nose, and quaffed the contents.


	11. Chapter 11

Chronicles of Kells and Temra

Chapter Eleven

They came at dawn, marching in perfect sync with one another, shields and swords ready. No longer did they resemble a group of beaten dogs; no, this was an army ready to do battle with its foe. As soon as the sentry saw the army approaching, he sounded the horn, rousing the Kellsmen. The archers took their spots and began sending a volley of arrows down on the marching Temrans but it did little to slow them.

With the Temrans came other battalions, sellswords with which Nemain had made deals with. There were the blue-lipped Drowned Men renowned for their fearlessness in battle and the Dragonspawn, so named because they were rumoured not to be of human blood but of dragon. There were many other groups with the Temrans, massive mountain trolls with arms like tree trunks, almost impervious to pain. Most of the sellswords, the Kellsmen haven't heard of, but with the enemy nearly at their gates, they didn't much care to know who they were.

Deirdre barely had enough time to change out of her nightclothes. She grabbed her crossbow and began barking orders at the soldiers around her. Most of the servants who tended the castle had been sent away, save for the few essential ones needed to run the kitchen and tend the stables, in case of a long siege. King Conchobar had wanted to send her away as well, but Deirdre wouldn't hear of it. This was her home; she would not let the Temrans take it without a fight.

All the knights understood the seriousness of this battle. Up until now most of their fights had been mere skirmishes; Kiaran was playing with them, testing their defenses, and if things got too hot, he'd pull his men back. Not today. Today there would be no pulling back, only a long drawn-out fight to finish.

War horns were sounded as the Temrans began, fighting through a hail of arrows, placing ladders against the castle walls. Nothing seemed to slow them down, not ordinary weapons or mystic ones. They just kept coming.

Deirdre scanned the crowd of Temrans, searching for Kiaran. She had no idealistic intentions of convincing him to turn back and fight for her side; it was past that point; he had made his choice; now, she must make hers. She only wanted to find him so she could give him a good blast with her crossbow.

A great black dragon, filled with spite, flew over head, spitting out fire as it flew near the archers. It was a swift dragon, able to dodge much of the volleys. Rohan knew instantly what he must do and did it without asking: he called on Pyre. The dragons wrestled and fought with each other, spitting flames and clawing at the other's flesh, but he quickly turned his attention back to the fight.

Kiaran watched this fight from behind. There was no point in positioning himself up front; he had trained his men well and they needed him alive to give orders.

He trusted his men only, not the Dragonspawn, or the Drowned Men, or the sellswords Nemain had hired. He had told her as much before the battle that he didn't trust them but Nemain just laughed. "My dear, Kiaran, I'm not asking for trust from these sellswords; I merely need their service. Gold will buy many things."

There was more he wanted to ask her but he didn't. He was already skating on thin ice with her—though she didn't say anything to him, he guessed she was disappointed in his failure to slay the Princess—and couldn't afford to earn her ire. But he had worked out a deal with her; win or lose, this was his last fight. After this, she would revive his sister and give him leave to return to Galen.

He continued to bark out orders as men charged around him. Soon it would be time for him to make his move. He called on his armor.

He never much cared for magic. His home country had no need for it and when he had seen it in action, it had horrific consequences. He had seen men ripped to pieces by magic and when the battle was all said and done, there'd be little of them left worth burying. But then again, war was always cruel whether magic was used or not. "And yet you keep coming back," he muttered.

He spread himself on the wind and flowed past the walls, past the rows of fighting men, dodging flames and arrows. He ignored the King, ignored Draganta, and the Princess. He hadn't told his men the full truth of the mission. True, they were to take the castle and put the Princess and King to the sword, that was the standard rule of war, but Nemain had given him another order as well: "The druid," she said. "Whether the castle falls or not, you give me his blood."

Again, he didn't know why she wanted the druid above all others and it didn't occur to him to ask: he is a soldier. His job is to obey.

Cathbad was secluded away from the action in his shop, working on potions and powders, to heal the wounded and to drive away the trolls and dragon. He felt guilty being sheltered from the action but he was an old man; battles were for the young. Besides he could do much more for his side in his shop.

A cold breeze blew through his shop, putting out the candles. Cathbad turned his head. "Ah, so you're here." He grasped a handful of powder and threw it onto his assailant, moments before his steel could cut his throat.

Kiaran cried out in pain. His body became solid and his feet froze to the floor. He tried to reach for his sword but he could not move his hands. He couldn't move any part of him. "Wizard!" he shouted. "What have you done to me?"

Cathbad stood before him, a small smile on his face. "A little concoction of my own creation, designed to work on spirits. You're not going anywhere, Knight of Shadows."


	12. Chapter 12

Chronicles of Kells and Temra

Chapter Twelve

"Spirit? What are you talking about, Wizard?" Kiaran struggled against the invisible bonds that held him in place.

"Struggle all you wish: my magic will hold you in place," Cathbad said. "Let me guess, Nemain didn't tell you the full truth."

"What full truth is there?" But the Druid turned and walked away, leaving him frozen in place.

Rohan sent a shower of flames at a Drowned Man. There were so many men crawling all over the wall, crawling in the courtyard. Despite their best efforts, nothing seemed to slow the invaders down, not even their mystic weapons. Much as he hated to admit it, Kiaran had trained these men well; they had lost their fear of the Mystic Knights.

Up in the sky, Pyre continued to struggle with the great black dragon, neither side gaining or losing ground, as they tore at each other with their claws.

A red fire bird flew through the air. Rohan knew instantly that Cathbad was summoning them. He shouted a quick order to Angus. "We've got to get to Cathbad."

Angus bludgeoned a soldier with his mace. "Tell the old man: this had better be important!" But he followed Rohan back into the castle.

Deirdre, Ivar, and Garrett were waiting for them. Angus was more than just a little flustered. "The old man better have a reason for pulling us from the fight."

"I agree." Angus turned. There, still imprisoned by Cathbad, was Kiaran. Cathbad entered. "Now do you know the truth, Kiaran?"

"What truth is there?"

Cathbad sighed. "I suppose the full truth was too hard for you to perceive. But maybe with a little help you will. Just ask yourself, what happened before Nemain rescued you?"

Kiaran struggled. He started to say "What do you care?" when all of a sudden, he felt as though he were back in time, back at the last battle he fought at before Nemain rescued him.

The earth echoed with the pounding of feet as humans and horses trampled the ground. All around him was the smell of blood, sweat, and feces. One of the things all those fairy tales about knights-in-shining-armor fail to mention is how much blood, mud, and dung that comes with fighting. Not to mention that no one looks good when they've been run through with a sword.

"Do you remember?"

He did. He and his men had been marching for days in the rain and muck, soaked to the skin, tired and weary beyond all measure. It had been days since they had last had a good night's sleep and they were so exhausted that not even the jolly men were smiling. No one sang any camp songs nor did they talk about what they were going to do once the battle was finished. They only marched.

When the battle broke, Kiaran found himself going through the motion; he had allowed himself to become a machine, one that didn't know what to do anything except to keep going until he broke and he did.

He doesn't remember exactly what happened; just that while he was distracted, another soldier got him, slipping his blade in between the gaps of his armor.

He fell to the earth. Warm blood soaked his tunic. A retreat was sounded and all around him echoed the sound of feet and hooves as the knights retreated and all he could do was lie, helpless as a baby, on the muddy soil and cry out, "Please don't leave me." Then…His face turned pale and his eyes went wide as the truth of what had happened that day dawned on him. "No…"

"I see you're beginning to understand," Cathbad said. "You died that day, far from your home and family, on that ground. Only Nemain's intervention kept you from ascending to the afterlife."

"She raised me from death." But Kiaran's lip was trembling; he was going increasingly unsure of himself.

Cathbad laughed. "Don't be absurd: Nemain doesn't have the power to do anything of the sort. Rather, she intervened by binding your soul to some object, probably in her possession. I'm afraid the truth is, you are a ghost."

"But that's absurd! Ghosts don't need food or sleep."

"Neither do you. You only need these things out of habit." Cathbad leaned in close to him. "I understand how hard this is; death is traumatic and seldom does the memory record it accurately. No wonder there are so many spirits wandering the earth, refusing to accept the truth."

Kiaran shook. Nemain had been lying to him about everything. Deirdre reached out to comfort him, but he turned away. Tears ran down his face. He cried like a wounded animal, shaking and sobbing. "Blast it, wizard! Free me from this damned prison!"

"Only if you call off your army," Cathbad said.

"I can't do a damned thing as long as I'm trapped here!"

"Very well." Cathbad freed him. Immediately Kiaran flew to the top of the castle walls and called off the onslaught. When the men protested, he shouted, "O blast you all! You'll still get paid!" The men grumbled but they left, every last one of them, including the black dragon.

Kiaran silently watched as they left. Deirdre climbed up next to him. "So I suppose you'll fight for Kells now?"

But Kiaran just looked at her, eyes wide and sad. "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way." Then he climbed down from the battlements and started for Temra.


	13. Chapter 13

Kiaran continued onward towards Temra. No longer did he look the part of the handsome prince; his blonde hair stuck up all over the place and his eyes were dark and sad.

Deirdre, Garrett, Ivar, and Angus followed after him. It was Deirdre's idea, really to pursue Kiaran. "He could be useful to us," Deirdre said. "We ought to at least try." And the knights, knowing how stubborn Deirdre could be, agreed, except for Rohan. Rohan was serving a greater mission for the King: finding Maeve. The former queen of Temra had slipped out during the attack on the castle and no one knew where she had gone.

Deirdre reached for Kiaran. He spun around. "I thought you wouldn't follow me now that I've called off my men."

"I just wanted to talk."

"About what?"

"Why are you going back to Nemain? She lied to you."

"I know she lied to me." He glared at her but overall, his expression was one of weariness rather than anger.

Angus frowned. "So if you know she lied to you, why are you going back to Temra with your tail between your legs?"

"Because," Kiaran said. "There are few options available to me."

"Nemain's liable to kill you for real this time," Garrett said. "After all, you failed to take the castle."

"I know," He said. Both he and the knights knew why he hadn't ascended to the realm of the dead: according to Cathbad, Nemain must have bound Kiaran's spirit to an item in her possession. All she would have to do, if she wanted to get rid of him would be to break it.

"So you're going to go right into her hands?" Angus asked.

"No! Not like that," Kiaran said. "I'm going to kill her before she kills me."

"What?" Deirdre's face had turned pale. The audacity of a man who thought he could kill a goddess. But Ivar was calm. "And what do you intend to do, should you succeed in killing Nemain," he asked.

"Do?" Kiaran spun around. "Why rule Temra as its rightful king!"

"Are you crazy?" Deirdre asked.

"Of course not. Swords and steel are what keeps thrones and I have the love of the soldiers. Should I kill Nemain, the soldiers will crown me their king." He paused. "Someone has to rule Temra after all and if your king is unable or unwilling to, why not me? I promise to respect the Temran-Kells borders and show your king the respect he feels he deserves, so long as I am left to rule Temra as I see fit. Plus, since I'm already dead, you need not worry about issues regarding succession."

Deirdre turned red as she often did when her father was criticized. "The Temrans would never embrace my father as King."

"Which is why I would serve Kells well as its King."

But they all knew there was a much darker reason why Kiaran so desperately wanted to return to Temra and kill Nemain. "You're afraid, aren't you," Ivar said.

"Afraid? What' s there to be afraid of? I'm already dead so what's the worst that can happen to me?"

"You feel your existence is unnatural, so you're going to Temra to provoke Nemain into killing you. You have no intention of returning alive from this mission." Ivar had seen this sort of thing before; it is very difficult to talk someone, who has willed themselves to die, out of dying.

He laughed, a choked, strangled laugh. "Now I believe it is you who are the fool. After all I have plenty of things to live for..."

Deirdre joined in. "You have no family to return to and now you know that Nemain can't keep the promises she made you whatever they were."

"So what would you have me to do, Princess?" He spat out the last word like a poison.

"Live and fight for Kells."

"And what's stopping Nemain from killing me should I defect?"

"I don't know," Deirdre said. "But if you choose to stay with us, at least you might have a chance. Go to Nemain and you'll have no chance, period."

He sighed. Nemain had lied about him, had lied about everything. She wasn't going to resurrect his sister, Lyanna, and he would never return home to Galen. If it weren't for Nemain, he likely would be in the realms of the dead by now. But the Princess was right. If he wanted to live, he should stay in Kells. "All right, you have me. If it pleases you, you may take me as your prisoner."

"There's no need for that," Deirdre said. And together, the knights returned to Kells.

Maeve trudged through the slush and snow as she struggled towards the Temran border. The weather had been harsh and her bad leg didn't make traveling any easier, but she knew she had to get to Temra; she'd be damned before she let Nemain reduce it to ash.

She had taken the potion that Mider gave her, had seen what Nemain was doing in Temra. She had seen the castles and mountains beyond the castle; the vision, of men stirring large barrels full of green liquid, remained clear. Nemain was having her men make wildfire. Wildfire. She knew it well.

She knows the Druid suspects she murdered her father and it's true that she did, but he doesn't understand why. It was true she knew she couldn't count on her father to give her the throne—he hated her for not being a boy and for having the mark—and it was true he was taking an annoyingly long time to die, but that still wasn't why. The truth was in wildfire.

Her father, the Mad King of Temra, was obsessed with flames and wildfire and it was for that obsession, she killed him. His paranoia that Kells would invade was another all-consuming obsession, so he ordered his collection of sorcerers and wizards and assorted crackpots start constructing wildfire. When Maeve found out, she and her lover, Dareon, killed him.

She had seen wildfire in use once in her life in her travels. It was often used in demolition in some parts and under controlled conditions, it worked well. But it was so easy for wildfire to get out of control.

Wildfire was designed to burn until there was nothing left; she had seen it burn on water. The only way to quench it was to smother it. It also had to be handled very delicately: it could easily be set off and destroy its maker. Judging by the numerous kegs she had already prepared, Nemain had enough to reduce Temra and Kells to ashes, but why? Why would she destroy her quarry?

Then the answer came to Maeve. Because her goal in this war is not to win but simply not to lose. This was all a game to Nemain, a fun diversion, but should it look like things were going badly for her or if it stopped being fun, she would unleash the wildfire and destroy everything on this island. Nemain would walk away unscathed, while innocents burned.

Maeve clenched her fists as she leaned on her walking stick. She would not, could not let this happen. While her memories of Temra were not fond ones, she wouldn't let it go up in flames.

Then she heard the sound of fluttering wings.


	14. Chapter 14

Chronicles of Kells and Temra

Chapter Fourteen

Maeve groaned as she stared up at the fairy. "I suppose you've come to rat me out to Rohan, who will drag me kicking and screaming back to Kells."

Aideen started to say, "That's the general idea," but before she could say anything, Rohan spoke. "No, mother, she isn't."

"What?!" the tiny fairy began firing off a long stream of questions. "Rohan, what are you thinking?"

"I want to see where she is going," he said simply. "Don't worry; I won't let her do anything that will endanger Kells. Just go and tell the King that I am dealing with her." Aideen turned red with anger, but she flew off, leaving Rohan and Maeve alone.

Maeve looked him square in the eye. "So you want to see what I am going to do? Is that the case? Well, follow me."

Maeve walked on ahead, dragging her bad leg behind her. Rohan knew he was taking a big gamble, one for which the King would be liable to hang him for if it failed, but he knew Maeve escaped for a reason and he wanted to know why. But also, he knew she possessed pieces of the puzzle and that if he dragged her back to Kells, she would certainly hang this time; the King would have lost his patience with her. So, in defiance of the King's orders, he followed her, across the border separating Kells and Temra, into the dark woods.

The woods seemed to go on and on without end and there was no light. Maeve moved slowly and deliberately, feeling her way along the tree trunks. Rohan could tell that she knew exactly what she was looking for. The only question was what was she looking for? Finally she gasped. She muttered an incantation under her breath. The tree swung open, revealing a golden spear, though there was no spearhead. "Pity," Maeve murmured, ignoring Rohan entirely. "I'd always hoped I'd find the head to go with the spear, but I'm afraid I'm just going to have to find a way to kill Nemain without it."

"Kill Nemain?" Rohan never thought of his mother as being the paragon of sanity (she was the daughter of the Mad King after all), but to propose killing a goddess?

"Foolish Rohan, everything dies, even goddesses. In fact, Ragnvald, one of your ancestors, was rumored to have slain a goddess before founding Temra." She bit her lip as she tightened her grip around the golden spear. "I always did wonder if goddesses bleed like everyone else."

Rohan didn't know what to do. Every muscle cried out for him to do something to stop Maeve, but at the same time, he wanted to see what was would happen. Maybe Maeve knew something that even Fin Varra didn't: how to slay a goddess. Again, Maeve possessed pieces to a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve, so he followed her, ignoring Aideen's protests along with his own.

The Temran castle loomed before them a dark scab against the rocky landscape around them. "I don't suppose Nemain is just going to let us in." Rohan tried to joke, but his words fell on deaf ears.

Maeve ignored him and led him to the far side of the castle, where the crypts laid. She used the spear to pry them open, then slipped inside, managing to move as quiet as a shadow even despite her bad leg. Rohan followed, wishing badly he had a light but soon his eyes adjusted to the low light in the crypt.

All around him were stone statues of Maeve's ancestors, his ancestors, he realized. He couldn't help but stare and wonder about their stories. He had heard a little about the Temran bloodline from Cathbad, but he hadn't heard much except that supposedly whenever a new Temran monarch was born, the gods tossed a coin. On one side would be greatness, but on the other side, was madness, and everyone always held their breath wondering which way it'd turn.

Near all the statues were kegs, but when Rohan bent down to inspect them, Maeve shot him a murderous look. "Don't you dare," she said.

The last statue they passed was the infamous Mad King Ruarc. Rohan studied his stone face. Maeve bore a rather striking appearance to her father and from what he'd heard, when she first took the throne, there had been hope among the people of Kells; after all, there was a chance that maybe she hadn't been as touched by madness as her father. But of course, it hadn't worked out for anyone.

Finally, Maeve found the passage she was looking for. They crept, the low ceiling forcing them to bend over like old beggars, until they found themselves in Nemain's throne room.

Nemain sat on her throne, drumming her hands along its armrests. "So you've made it? Good…" She smiled. It was a smile that made Rohan think of a cat stalking her prey and there was much that was catlike about Nemain. He shivered.

Maeve remained calm. "I saw a vision. You are making wildfire. I cannot let this slide."

Rohan stared. "What's wildfire?"

Maeve shot him a stern look. "Go home and pray you never know."

But Nemain wagged her finger. "I'm afraid I can't let you leave." She muttered an enchantment, freezing Rohan's feet to the floor, then turned to Maeve. "So you mean to challenge me? You always were a bold, impudent little creature—that's why I took you on as a pupil—but I'm afraid you've always had more impudence than sense." She tightened her grip around her staff. "Watch and learn, Rohan. Perhaps you can learn from your mother's example."

Rohan watched as his mother and Nemain battled. He tried and tried to break free, but Nemain's enchantment was strong. He couldn't even use the fire from his sword.

Maeve got in a few early blows with the spear. As the shaft made contact with the goddess's flesh, bright blisters appeared. But Nemain continued to smile. "Thought I'd let you get in a few hits, just to make things interesting." She then took her staff and uttered an incantation. Dark lightening flew, coursing through Maeve and forcing her to drop the spear.

She fell to the ground. She coughed, bright red blood coming from her mouth, and crawled, feeling around for the golden spear. Nemain stood on the spear. She shook her head. "Dear Maeve, you always did have more passion than sense. You were always so certain that you could overcome your natural deficiencies through hard work, but I'm afraid it doesn't work that way." She kicked Maeve repeatedly in the gut. Maeve gasped. She tried to crawl away, to ward off the blows, but Nemain was too swift for her. She reached for a thin, brittle blade and drove it into Maeve's shoulder. Then the goddess stepped away to inspect her handiwork. She muttered an incantation, freeing Rohan. Rohan summoned fire with his sword, but the goddess merely blocked it bare-handed. She looked at Rohan. "I am feeling rather generous so I will let you and your mother, leave this castle. But be warned; I shall not be so generous next time we meet."

It galled Rohan to have to leave, but he had no choice; there was no way he could match Lady Nemain in combat and trying to do so, would cost Kells its only hope. He could only hope that Maeve might be willing to talk to him for a change.

He helped her to her feet and together, they left the way they came. At first, Maeve merely leaned on him, but as they got further and further from the castle, she had more and more trouble standing until finally Rohan stopped and turned to her. "Mother," he said. "Let me carry you." And he could tell, even in as much pain as she was in, that it galled her to be slung on his back and carried, but she was in no shape to offer resistance.

The journey through Temra was slow-going. Rohan had wondered what it was going to take to get Maeve talking, but it turns out, it didn't take much. For the first time in a long time, Maeve was talking to him, telling him information rather than merely taunting him or insulting him. He had long given up expecting any motherly softness from her, but still he found himself eager to listen.

"Had to stop her…she was making wildfire…could kill us all..." Maeve spoke in between gasps. Part of him wanted to tell her to save her strength but at the same time, he knew this time might never come again in which she tells him everything he wanted to know.

"What is wildfire, mother?"

"A great potion that creates a great fire that burns everything in its path; it'll even burn on water. The only way to stop it is to deprive it of air. From what my visions showed me, Nemain has enough kegs to burn this island ten times over."

Rohan paled. "But why? What's the point in conquering a burned-out husk?"

Maeve shook her head. "You don't know Nemain like I do. You have to remember, Nemain's goal isn't to win; it's simply not to lose. She's playing a game with all of us as pieces. If the game ever stops being fun, all she'll have to do is trigger the wildfire, let the island go up in flames, and walk away to her next game. She doesn't care about ruling this island in the slightest."

Rohan felt all color leave his skin as he pictured all the flames running wild over the island, consuming not only Temra, but Kells as well. What was he going to tell the King? He could only hope Cathbad knew something to stop it.

The border drew closer, but just when it was in sight, Maeve asked for him to stop.

"Why?"

"Temra is my home." Her breathing was becoming more labored; the words were becoming harder to get out. "If I must die, then let it be on Temran soil."

He started to protest saying that he could send Aideen and they could reach the castle by sunset, but Maeve shook her head. "If I didn't know any better, I'd almost swear you cared, Rohan." She gave a pained smile, but the poison from the blade was moving through her system and no matter how much Rohan protested, he knew she didn't have long.

She looked him straight in the eye. "His name…was Dareon…" Then she breathed her last.


End file.
